


On the Way Up

by maely1234



Category: Spider-Man: Into the Spider-Verse (2018)
Genre: Gen, Survivors Guilt, dealing with grief, except this time there isn't immediately a way to contact the other spiders, hinted may/olivia, listen its right there, set after the movie ends, teen rating is more as a precaution, the other spider people are mentioned but dont show up, warning for blood but nothing graphic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-02-21
Updated: 2019-02-21
Packaged: 2019-11-01 22:05:27
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 10,818
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17875703
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/maely1234/pseuds/maely1234
Summary: Adjusting is the hardest part. Once the whole, ‘oh crap the world will end I’ll lose everything I love I have to go go go,’ mentality is no longer in gear, and the mantle of Spider-man is well and truly his, Miles simply doesn’t know how he’s supposed to adapt.In other words, Miles learns how to deal with everything after the dust has settled.





	On the Way Up

**Author's Note:**

> my monstrosity of a fic is finally completed. i just had so many thoughts and emotions after seeing this movie (i went to see it twice it was that amazing) that i had to write them down. hence why this is more unorganized than my usual style but i think it works

Adjusting is the hardest part. Once the whole, ‘oh crap the world will end I’ll lose everything I love I have to go go go,’ mentality is no longer in gear, and the mantle of Spider-man is well and truly his, Miles simply doesn’t know how he’s supposed to adapt. 

 

Some things haven’t changed, like the half condescending, half taunting look that most kids in that stupid fancy school give him- but honestly Miles doesn’t blame them for that, after the whole incident with Gwen’s hair. His classes are still difficult and overbearing. He’s kept his habit of sneaking away at nights. 

 

But there are things that have changed too. Miles keeps his head high under the gazes instead of chuckling and ducking his way around them. He puts his best effort into his classes- most of the time. He doesn’t sneak off to do graffiti, but spends his nights patrolling the city and helping where he can. Well, he would do graffiti, sometimes, but the weight that settles on his shoulders whenever he tries to put spray paint to a wall is too much for him. That time with his dad was special, because it was his Dad chuckling awkwardly and holding a spray can upside down and honestly doing a terrible job but it was them together; his Dad reaching out to try and make a deeper connection. That’s something that isn’t there when he goes out on his own, and he’s too hesitant to ask his dad to find another wall for them to decorate together. 

 

“The city looks so small,” Miles mutters to himself, legs dangling off the edge of a skyscraper, idly swinging. He puts his thumb up, blocking out some of the distance buildings with a small smile. 

 

The night wind is sharper up here, but he doesn’t mind. It helps to distract him from his reflective thoughts. Maybe he should ask Ms. Parker about a suit that’s slightly more insulated; his jacket isn’t that thick after all. His smile slips. Thoughts about Ms. Parker always lead back to Mr. Parker-  _ his  _ Peter, whose eyes still bore into him when he dreams. 

 

“It’s not my fault.” Saying it out loud helps, makes it more believable to his ears even as his voice trembles to betray his uncertainty. 

* * *

He stays up there until he sees the flash of police lights draws him down. He stops a robbery with only a few bruises and walks away with an ember of pride in his chest. 

 

“Hey man,” Miles greets Ganke with a grin and their customary fist bump. “How’s it goin’?” 

 

“You know, suffering my way through life, the norm.” Ganke rolls his eyes, and Miles chuckles. 

 

Miles collapses onto his bed with a dramatic groan, spreading his limbs out so they flop off the edges. “Physics is kicking my ass to hell and back.” 

 

“Mm, I’m sure you’re used to that, you know. Can’t compare to Fisk.” 

 

“Thank you, for that wonderful comparison,” Miles deadpans, hiding the very real squeeze of bitterness that accompanies that name. Ganke doesn’t know though- Miles had explained the situation with the other spiders with as little detail as possible. Miles doesn’t want to think about what’s attached to Fisk’s name anyways, so he playfully kicks Ganke in retribution. “Doesn’t change the fact that physics is killing me more then any armed robber would.” 

 

“I can help with that,” Ganke comments absentmindedly, pushing up his glasses as he powers up his computer. 

 

“Really?” Miles nearly falls off the bed, unable to stop the hopeful smile stretching across his face. 

 

“As long as you help me with english.” 

 

“I’d help you build a flying car if you can get me through this class.” 

 

“Fair enough.” 

* * *

He may not do graffiti, but he can’t help but sketch out images into his new notepad. Dad had bought it for him after his old one was filled to the brim. Miles doesn’t know how Dad had found out, but Miles isn’t worried about details. The notebook is one of the few things Dad has gotten him on a whim rather than as a present, and one thing whose purpose is for Miles to indulge his creative pleasures with. It makes his chest go soft and fuzzy when he looks at the cover for too long. 

 

He draws sticker designs for the most part. If he could get away with it he would leave one at the scene of every crime he stops. A few lucky glances at the stickers on Dad’s part though, and his cover would be blown, leaving him grounded for the next eternity. He settles for sketching them out and coloring them on paper only. 

 

In the back of his mind, there’s an itch to draw something about the other spiders. He shoves it down, having already spent countless hours agonizing over designs for any sort of mural. None of them could encapsulate the spider’s in their entirety. Spider-ham’s wacky dynamic was lost in the elegant swirls that suited Gwen perfectly. Spider-noir’s grizzled essence never quite makes its way to the forefront as it should. Peni and her robot are a complex tangle that always seems too large and dense for the rest of the piece. Peter has a unique style all his own, shabby looking yet wonderfully complex once you gave it a closer look. Miles never got the chance to really know Mr. Parker, but he got a sense of gentleness combined with a perseverance harder than steel. Trying to capture that is an endless war of hard lines against soft edges, never quite mixed as they should be. He considered doing separate pieces, but the idea is wrong to him. They are all different, but they are all Spider-man, all connected by that single strand of fate. 

 

Miles never includes himself in these sketches, and he tries not to consider the reasons why. 

* * *

Miles goes for tea and dinner at Ms. Parker’s every Tuesday at 5. Miles will tell her about his week, including Spider-man exploits, and Ms. Parker will give him tips and tricks. He enjoys hearing about the eventful things that happen to Ms. Parker too, she has a habit of getting involved in the strangest situations. He still can’t believe that one time on the subway- he shudders, Mrs. Parker is terrifying when she wants to be. 

 

He takes the train to the general area, then walks the rest of the way. Spring is breathing new life into the city, replacing snow laden trees with fresh new shoots. Winter still clings stubbornly though, the dry air rejuvenating. Hands shoved into his pockets, Miles walks up to the front door. He shoulders the doorbell, the effort to remove his hands from his pockets deemed unnecessary unless absolutely needed. 

 

 

Ms. Parker answers the door with a crinkled smile. “Didja’ bring your suit with you?” 

 

He nods slowly, brows drawing together with concern. “Uh, yeah- what’s up? Are you being targeted or something?” 

 

“Oh nothing like that.” Ms. Parker laughs, waving a hand. “I just have a...special guest over, and you’re going to be a lot more comfy if you have your suit on.” 

 

“I- okay?” He shrugs, Ms. Parker ushering him inside and to the left. He’s glad that she isn’t being targeted, but all the more confused as to why he should put his suit on. 

 

“Hey May, would you mind if I took a bit more of the tea?” 

 

Oh no. Oh no, no, no, no, no. Miles scrambles to get into his suit, hopping around on one foot as he struggles to get the stupid pant legs up. Dang it, why couldn’t this suit be easier to get on? 

 

“Sure, I’m putting on another pot anyways for my other guest,” Ms. Parker calls cheerily-  _ cheerily _ \- back. 

 

Only when the mask is securely on does Miles relax even the tiniest fraction. As he creeps forward, he can feel himself instinctively flicker out of sight. His footsteps are silent from practice as he inches his way into the dining room. 

 

Sitting at the table, eating a biscuit and sipping tea as if she’s a normal person and not a supervillain who’s tried to kill him multiple times, lounges Olivia Octavius. 

 

Ms. Parker strolls in carrying a big bowl of what appears to be soup, and Miles can barely believe his eyes. She’s completely calm and Miles can’t understand. Is she secretly being held hostage? Had Doc Oc somehow found his identity? Doc Oc looks relaxed, completely at ease; is it arrogance at having the prime chance to catch him? Is she planning on hurting Ms. Parker? What happens if his family is next? What if-

 

“Now Liv,” Ms. Parker’s stern voice grabs Miles out of his thoughts. “I’m warning you  _ again _ this is neutral territory. If you damage anything I can and will make you pay for it.” 

 

“I know, I know,” Doc Oc casually waves two of her tentacles. A frown tugs at her face when she mutters, “I’m still paying for last time.”

 

“As you should.” Ms. Parker scowls, but it isn’t as deep as Miles thought it should be. By now he’s leaning on one of the chairs, tense and flinching at every move Doc Oc makes. 

 

“So, who’s this other guest of yours? Finally reentering the dating pool?” Miles blinks because Doc Oc sounds teasing, but not in the way that she likes to taunt him when they fight, in the ‘we’ve been friends forever so I get the right to do this’ sort of way. 

 

“You’ll see. He’ll show himself eventually.” Ms. Parker seems to announce this to the room, but Miles stays invisible, still trying to catch up. 

 

Okay. So Ms. Parker and Doc Oc are...friends? Really? Can this get any weirder?

 

“Being cryptic are we? Must be some guest.” 

 

Miles turns himself visible, waiting for a strike that never comes. Instead, Doc Oc’s eyebrows shoot up to her forehead as she sighs. 

 

“Of course it’s the spider-kid.  _ Of course. _ Honestly I shouldn’t have expected anything else.” 

 

“Have a seat,” Ms. Parker beckons him over, but Miles shakes his head. 

 

“No offence Ms. Parker, but I’m good- great actually- right over here.” 

 

“What? I don’t bite.” Doc Oc grins, as if that will ease his nerves. “Your little spidey sense would be going off if I did.” 

 

With a start, Miles realizes that Doc is right. His spider sense hasn’t gone off once. It doesn’t really relieve his anxieties, but its enough for him to take a seat opposite to Doc. 

 

“I told you to call me Aunt May,” Ms. Parker chides him gently, and Miles simply nods, knowing he won’t. 

 

Dinner is civil, but tension underlays it, thick enough that Miles could have cut it with the knife he used to butter his biscuits. Doc Oc is the one to leave first, with a curt, “See you later,” to Ms. Parker and glance that isn’t quite all hostility in his direction. 

 

When he gets ready to leave, his better nature abandons him, and he blurts, “Why are even friends with her? She’s evil- she tries to kill me on a bi-weekly basis. She tried to kill Mr. Parker too…” He wants to say that Doc had a part in killing Mr. Parker, but the wound is likely still fresh for Ms. Parker. 

 

“We were college buddies- more than buddies actually,” Mrs. Parker says with a fond, nostalgic smile. “Kept in touch after we graduated and went our separate ways. She disappeared for two years and the next time I see her it’s in the news as she went rampaging around for some reason. Then one day she showed up and asked if we could talk. Promised my safety and everything. She would still drop by to say hi and I didn’t chase her away.” 

 

“But shouldn’t you have like- alerted the police or something? What about Mr. Parker?” 

 

“There’s a thing with the supervillains, they always find a way out of jail, one way or the other. Peter never could kill them- and I’m glad for that. If I turned her in she would have never come back. I didn’t want that. So I didn’t do it. It helped that by then Peter was out of the house.” Ms. Parker smiles, soft and sad. Miles can feel himself soften with it, sympathy overriding his fear. 

 

“But what if...what if she finds out who I am?” 

 

“She won’t. She doesn’t go looking into that kind of stuff. ‘Makes the unmasking after I beat them boring’ and all. That’s what the suit’s for anyways. She already knows I have a connection to Spider-man, if you came walking in as you it wouldn’t take her long to start making assumptions- point is, you’re safe here Miles. I’ll make sure of it.” 

 

An overwhelming wave of relief crashes over him, and he resists the urge to hug Mrs. Parker because that would be weird. He gives a shaky smile. “Thanks, Ms. Parker.” 

 

“Again, call me Aunt May.” 

 

A lump grows in Miles throat. “I can’t. Sorry.” 

 

Before Ms. Parker can ask him why, he ducks away. 

* * *

The next day, he spends geometry furiously drawing and erasing. A silhouette appears, sharp and distinct. Eyes are sketched in softly, as is the bleeding heart on the chest. 

 

It’s not quite there yet, but this is the best Peter that Miles has done yet. 

* * *

The hardest thing about having a double life is waking up. If it weren’t for Ganke, Miles would have missed a lot of school. 

 

At seven, Miles’ alarm goes off. It is put on snooze without a second thought, and Miles rolls over. At five after snooze is pushed again. At 10 after a finger pokes his cheek in time to the blaring alarm. He shoves the hand away with an unintelligible grumble. 

 

“C’mon Miles, you gotta get up- or else I bring out the ice.” 

 

Miles sits up, groggily blinking, but mostly awake. The threat of having ice poured on his chest is very, very, real though, and Miles will avoid it at all costs. The mention of ice is enough to jump start him into semi-awareness, but his body protests. His limbs are heavy, aching with the pain of last night’s encounter with Scorpion. He isn’t tuned into his spider sense enough for someone as fast as that man- robot- whatever. 

 

He stumbles out of bed, nearly falling on top of Ganke, who gently shoves him off. “You gotta wake up.” 

 

“Un momento- ack” Miles steps wrong, aggravating the already tender ankle. That pain is enough for him to shake his head and fully awaken. He looks down at the throbbing joint and hisses, “Puta.” 

 

“You okay?” 

 

“Yeah...I think.” 

 

Ganke shoots him an unimpressed look, and Miles rolls his eyes. “Don’t even worry about it man, it’s nothing.” 

 

“Just go see the nurse. Even Spider-man needs real medical treatment.” 

 

“I heal faster than most people. It’ll be fine.” Miles slips on his shirt, fumbling with the tie while Ganke sighs. 

 

“If you keep walking on that it’s only going to get worse. Super healing or not just go see the nurse.” 

 

“...Fine. I’ll go at lunch.” 

 

“You’re gonna regret not going during first.” 

 

“Whatever.” 

* * *

“Officer,” Miles greets Dad with a pained wave. He thinks he forgot to deepen his voice but he kinda has bigger issues- most presently the bullet wound in his shoulder that’s warm and wet with blood. 

 

“Kid-”

 

“Not a kid.” Miles says it on reflex. If Dad thinks that Spider-man is a kid then that’s one step closer to discovering who he is. 

 

“Spider-man, you aren’t looking too good. You need to get to a hospital.” 

 

“No can do sir. I got an identity to protect.” Miles wonders if he should be swinging with this, but he’s gonna have to because Dad has that stubborn look on his face. Miles fears that he may tackle him to the ground in order to make him get proper medical treatment. He moves the hand covering the wound slightly, accidentally revealing it, Dad’s eyes widen before setting down into something firmer than they had been before. Yep, now’s probably a good time to go. 

 

“So, if my- wow that hurts- work is done here. I’ll see ya’” Miles zips away on a web, groaning and spitting curses with the pain. The only bright side is that he knows he can go to Ms. Parker’s and patch himself up. That lair has every kind of medical thing known to man. 

 

The trip across the city is...difficult, to say the least. He nearly falls mid swing at least three times, which is terrifying enough, not even counting the traffic below him. He half lands, half collapses in Ms. Parker’s backyard. For a minute, he simply lays there, regretting his life choices. His mind flashes to Gwen, and he wonders how she managed to handle herself after being injured. Her no friends policy probably meant she had no one to turn to- the thought makes Miles stomach curl in on itself. 

 

He pushes himself to his feet, the action making his head spin. He trudges his way into the lair and collapses into the chair closest to the medicine cabinet. He strips the suit off in slow, measured steps. First the jacket and shorts come off with a role of the shoulders-  _ouch_ \- and a tug at the shorts, next the mask, tug the suit down the shoulders- watch for the injury- _ow, ow, ow-_  shimmy it past his abdomen, stand up, pull up one leg, gingerly bend down to tug the suit down, shake it off the other leg. 

 

From there its standard procedure: put gauze onto the wound, apply pressure to stop the bleeding, pour alcohol in the wound, bite his lip hard enough that it bleeds to hold in the cries of pain, put clean gauze on, bandage it, and at last, gather his suit and spare clothes. Getting the clothes on is a challenge, but the pain isn’t too bad. 

 

From there he makes his way home, taking the subway back to school and crawling up to his dorm room. He collapses, sleep crashing into him like a brick wall. 

 

Tomorrow, he’ll ask Mamí about what special attention bullet wounds need under the pretense of it being for a project. He’ll smile away the pain that comes with every movement and greet people all the same, as if high fives and fist bumps don’t make him want to flinch and cradle his shoulder. He’ll go back to Mrs. Parker’s, ask her for help if there’s anything he can’t do on his own- that’s a lie, he’ll try to do it on his own first then go ask. He’ll greet his dad with a smile and hope his voice doesn’t remind him of the vigilante. All things that are quickly becoming routine. 

 

When he touches his shoulder, he thinks of Gwen. The chilling idea from last night won’t leave him- it reminds him how  _ alone, _ how strong, she is- how she had to be. 

 

When he pauses in his sketching, he taps his pencil against it, and thinks of her. She is outlined in bold white lines, a wall built up to protect her from the world. Inside, she is a spectrum of color, swirls and stars push at the walls, hoping for release. On the outside, only a few swirls manage to curl away, powerful and bold. 

* * *

“Hey dad. Hola Mamí.” Miles greets his parents with an accompanying hug. He squeezes them all the tighter, the idea of losing them a grim possibility rather than a distant thing. Neither of his parents have commented on the little habit’s he’s picked up, although he hears bits of their whispered conversations at night. They think its because he’s permanently moved to his new school. 

 

He’s hugging them in his nightmares to. 

 

Police sirens are blaring in the distance, drowned out by the sound of his frantic breaths. There’s some villain in the background, a shadowed combination of all the ones he’s faced. He doesn’t have his suit on, desperately clinging to his parents. His dad pulls himself from Miles’ embrace- wait- don’t- shouldn’t his grip be stronger than that- please just stay don’t go you’ll get  hurt- and tells them to stay back, that he’s got this. Miles wants to scream the truth, that he’s Spider-man, that he can handle this- don’t go, don’t go,  _ please  _ don’t go- but the words won’t come out. 

 

He never remembers exactly what happens, a small mercy from his subconscious. But his dad is on the ground and there’s a puddle spreading out from him and no- no- no- please no. Mamí holds him at arm's length, her eyes empty. 

 

“How could you let this happen?” 

 

“I didn’t- mamí- I- I-” Miles fumbles, unable to take his eyes off his dad yet wanting to look anywhere else. 

 

“How could you let this happen again?” Instead of his dad, Peter lays in front of him, body crumpled inwards. 

 

“I’m sorry- I’m so sorry.” Miles presses his hands against his temples, trying to shut it out. He knows he messed up. He knows he should have done more then. He knows he needs to do more now- more and more and more until he can somehow be the Spider-man the city wants and needs him to be. He knows, he knows, he knows- but he still doesn’t know if he really can. 

 

“C’mon kid, you said you could do it.” Peter stands in front of him, arms crossed, disappointment etched across his features. 

 

“Wait-” 

 

He jolts out of the nightmare, a cry dying on his lips. 

 

“Miles- Miles, mi amor, you’re alright, wake up.” Mamí is shaking his shoulders, and Miles frantic breaths stutter at the sight of her. He throws himself towards her, squeezing her tight. Trembling, he works to calm himself. Mamí rubs circles into his back, whispering comforting words in his ear- they aren’t anything coherent, a mix of spanish and english, but their purpose is clear. 

 

“¿Mijo? ¿Que  pasó?” She pulls away slightly, and in a blind panic, Miles grabs her shirt, clenching it tight. Her eyes soften even further, and a hand comes up to cup his cheek while the other smooths over his forehead. Slowly, she sits beside him, her hands steady. 

 

“...Solo una pesadilla.” Miles turns his head to the side, leaning into Mam í’s touch. 

 

“Oh, baby,” she hums sympathetically. “Do you want some water?”

 

“...Sí.” 

 

“Vuelvo enseguida mijo.”

 

Something in his gut clenches when she goes out of sight, but he keeps quiet. Footsteps sound outside his door, heavier than his mothers, and he tenses. 

 

“Hey, you doin’ alright?” Dad pokes his head around the corner, scratching the back of his neck. 

 

“Yeah, yeah I’m fine.” Miles can’t look at him without seeing the blood pool outwards. He looks at his calloused hands, traces the tiny scar on his palm. 

 

“It’s just a dream, it can’t hurt you.” So Dad had been listening in.

 

Miles chuckles, ignores the voice that wants to disagree because this hurts, and mumbles, “I know Dad, I’m not five.” 

 

“Just making sure...but- uh- if you ever wanna, I don’t know, talk ‘bout it or something. I’m, uh, here for you.” 

 

“Thanks-” Miles stops, his voice thick and smile watery. “I’m good but just- thanks.” 

 

“...You’re welcome.” Dad’s awkward grin almost makes Miles wants to cry more, because crap if Dad isn’t trying his hardest to change for Miles’ sake and there are no words to how much that means to him. 

 

“Here you go,” Mamí walks in, patting Dad on the back as she does. Miles takes the glass with much steadier hands than he had a few moments ago. The water is cool and refreshing. 

 

“Gracias.”

 

When his parents leave him to fall back asleep, after staying with him and chatting about everything and nothing, he stays awake for a while more, debating if he should go out for a trip around the city as Spider-man since he’s already up. He slips back into unconsciousness before he makes the decision. 

 

This time, he dreams of Uncle Aaron. They’re together, as a family, playing board games. It reminds Miles of a memory more than a dream, maybe it’s a mix of both. Somehow it’s worse than any nightmare. When he wakes up, he feels hollow. 

* * *

Miles always shrinks down when he comes here. Walking the path to the familiar grave is haunting. His shoulders dip from the weight of it all: being Spider-man, Mr. Parker, uncle Aaron, keeping this secret, Ms. Parker, the fear that eats at him from the inside that he still isn’t good enough, that he never will be. 

 

It’s different without the snow, but it still holds an ethereal grace to it, as if even the air recognizes that a hero is buried here. 

 

“Hey, Mr. Parker.” Miles squats down. “I kinda want to say its nice to see you but...yeah. Not really. Part of the whole ‘I only come here when I feel like crap.’ Not to say that I wouldn’t come visit your grave even if I wasn’t feeling bad- but...it’s just....”

 

“I wonder how you did it. How you manage to live your life and be Spider-man. I’m still doing okay in school, but I’m always catching up on something or doing something last minute or cramming or worrying.” Miles fumbles, backtracking. “But I know you did too. Ms. Parker said you got bitten in high school, which is kinda like middle school but better. So you had to go through all the same stuff and you didn’t have a dimension hopping group of spider people to help you out. I guess you didn’t have the threat of the whole world ending immediately so you had some more time to figure it out.

 

“I don’t- I don’t know if I can be as good as you. I have your powers and more but I still don’t know what I’m doing. I try to stop crimes- and I do like 95 percent of the time. It’s just- I can’t really put it into words-” Miles bows his head with a sigh. 

 

“This is stupid. I shouldn’t be feeling this way. I helped save the world, I’m not doing terrible as Spider-man now, I shouldn’t be feeling so bad.” Miles jumps to his feet, but his breath catches in his throat, and he pauses, lowering his head once more. 

 

“But I do. And I don’t know what I’m supposed to do to fix it. I can deal with it well enough I guess. Talking helps- although I think the fact that I can only talk to gravestones might be a bad sign.” Miles gives a broken chuckle before backing away. “See ya’.”

 

He gives one last glance to the graveyard. From a distance, the moonlight bleaches the area of all color, leaving it in a mix of grays that Miles can’t help but relate to Spider-Noir. 

* * *

When he draws Spider-noir’s silhouette, Miles tends to think of the way the man’s voice had been tinged with trauma and pain. He thinks about how a real conversation with Spider-noir would have gone. Surprisingly, he thinks that the sullen man would be good to get advice from, at least concerning the nightmares and such. The man looked like he’d seen things. 

 

Spider-noir’s figure is mostly white, but his eyes are black, as are his hands, the black splattering up like bloodstains. There’s a flower over where his heart his, thorny vines reaching out to wrap around his neck. The area around him is a mix of dark grey and black cubes. The outermost ones have bits of color, like the rubix cube Spider-noir had taken back with him. 

* * *

Miles sits perched on the side of the building, grinning under his mask. Dad stands below, looking up with a flat, unimpressed glare. He gestures to the robbers webbed up to the wall about 20 feet above the ground or so. 

 

“You wanna actually get those crooks down here so we can arrest them?” 

 

Miles hums, as if contemplating it. “I don’t know sir, they seem pretty comfy up here.”

 

Of course, none of said criminals were still conscious, so they didn’t have much say about Miles’ determination. 

 

Dad sighs, sounding more like a parent telling off their child than a police officer talking to the new masked vigilante- which is both funny and worrying to Miles. “Just get them down here. You already leave the police to clean up the rest of you messes.” 

 

“Yeah, yeah.” Miles waves a hand, but he feels a twinge of guilt anyways. It’s quick work to pull away the webbing and carry down the three men; super strength does have its perks after all. 

 

He accidentally picks up the last guy with his shoulder, and he swears he can hear his skin tear open again. He drops the guy, barely catching him in time with the other arm. Miles unceremoniously dumps him at Dad’s feet, dropping to the ground himself soon after. He grabs at his shoulder with a hiss, he’ll have to rebandage it now. Great. 

 

“That still hasn’t healed?” Dad asks. 

 

“Eh, ‘s what happens when you keep using it.” Miles backs away slightly. Dad hasn’t made any attempts to capture him, but the police weren’t always kind to the last Spider-man, and he wants to play it as safe as he can. 

 

“You can stop backing off,” Dad states. “Trust me, all you spider-people are the same, slippery little buggers. If I was trying to get you I wouldn’t be this obvious about it.”

 

“Oh. Cool.”

 

“Listen.” Miles’ freezes, internally groaning. He’s about to get a lecture from Dad-  _ Spider-man _ is about to get a lecture. Dad is dead set, looking him in the eyes, or well, the white circles on the mask that he can see out of. “I know you want to help the city… and you do. But you can’t keep getting hurt and then just waltzing out again like nothing happened. The city can survive without you for a few nights- more than that. We survived all those years before Spider-man started swinging around and causing a mess.

 

“Point is, I don’t want to see you out here until that shoulder is healed. You got me? If I’m honest I don’t want you out there at all.” 

 

“I got you. Loud and clear.” Miles puts his hands up, a bit of him wilting. He tries not to think about it too hard. Dad cares, but at the end of the day Miles, like the last Spider-man, is nothing but some other masked vigilante breaking the law in Dad’s eyes. 

 

“I’m serious. You are a child. You don’t need to be doing this. Go live your life; get coffee and text and whatever it is that teenagers do.” Dad waves a hand, as if dismissing Miles, but Miles is too shocked to move. He had realized that Dad is more sympathetic towards him than he had been with Mr. Parker. He knew that Dad sees this Spider-man as a child. But it had never occured to Miles that Dad would be concerned for him. Concerned in more than a ‘we need you to beat this villain so that the rest of the city isn’t slaughtered’ sort of way.   


 

“I’m Spider-man. Who else is gonna do it?” Miles says dumbly. It’s true. He has a responsibility to this city now, he got it with his powers. He can’t just up and abandon it. That’s  _ wrong. _

 

Dad turns slightly, looking away from him. “The police. The ones who have actual  _ legal _ authority to do so.” 

 

Miles hums, putting that annoying lilt in his voice to hide his still scrambling mind. “There’s no fun in that.” 

 

Dad opens his mouth to say something else, but Miles is already invisible, stalking away up the nearest wall silently. He doesn’t think he could take any more heart stopping revelations tonight. 

 

Dad sighs, pinching the bridge of his nose. To himself, he mutters, “Damn kid is gonna get himself killed if I don’t do something.”

* * *

“Miles, I need to speak with you,” Ms. Calleros calls him as the final bell rings, and Miles has to hold back a groan. He’s been trying now, but they had a test recently that he didn’t study for and he’s pretty sure that this is about his failing grade. He shuffles over to her desk, messing with the straps of his backpack. 

 

“First of all, this isn’t about the test, so you can stop looking like a deer in the headlights- not to give anything away but you did pretty well on it.” Miles gives a sigh of relief at her words, and she smiles. 

 

“Take a seat.” She gestures to one of the free chairs situated by her desk, and Miles carefully sits himself down, slinging his backpack over the back of the chair. 

 

She slides a familiar packet in his direction, his colored sketch “Expectations” on the front, his name neatly written below. Oh, this is about the essay. 

 

“You have anywhere you need to be? I don’t usually sit down for too long with students about their essays but I feel like this one was especially personal to you. I’m not forcing you to stay either, your grade is already set for it. I simply want to review it with you.” 

 

“Uh- okay? I don’t have anywhere to be.” 

 

“Alright then, now, I noticed the unusual way that you chose to start the essay…”

 

Miles walks out of Ms. Calleros’ classroom blinking, he can feel tears behind his eyes but he forces them down. 

 

‘What do you think best defines you?’ That had been the prompt. He hates prompts like that, but it had been an assignment and he had promised himself that he would try harder at school. He wrote it in one sitting, Kingpin and Uncle Aaron and Spiders and colliders jumbling in with his thoughts. 

 

It’s by far the most personal thing he’s ever submitted in his life, and Ms. Calleros had seen it all. She had seen it and picked it apart with careful, measured steps- appreciative steps.  

 

“You’re a good kid, okay? Don’t be too hard on yourself.” 

 

With shuddering breaths, Miles felt a smile overtake his face. 

* * *

“Miles. Miles. Miles!” The last call is punctuated with a pointed jab to Miles’ cheek and he slaps away the offending hand. 

 

“What was that for?” Miles rubs his hurt cheek with a petulant glare aimed in Ganke’s direction. 

 

Gnake shrugs. “Sorry but you were zoning out. What’s up with you lately?” 

 

It’s Miles’ turn to shrug, picking at his sleeve. “I dunno- just thinking some things over.” 

 

“You good?” There’s a real concern in Ganke’s voice, one that forces Miles to remember that Ganke is one of two people that have watched him stumble through a window with dried blood and memories clinging to his skin. Ganke never comments on it, just offers him a headphone and a shoulder to rant on if needed. 

 

“I’m good, like, actually good,” Miles answers honestly. “Figuring out stuff and all that junk.” 

 

“Nice.” Ganke shoots him a thumbs up. “If you want, I’m about to start a bad action movie marathon.” 

 

Miles takes a moment to consider it. He could be patrolling- should be patrolling- but his shoulder still hurts and the city has been quiet the past few days and he had just been telling himself that he needs to give himself a break. He puts one hand on the ceiling instinctively, so that as he slips off the top bunk he hangs for a moment before dropping to the ground. 

 

“Do all superheros show off or is it just you?” Ganke rolls his eyes with an exaggerated sigh. 

 

“Hey I might as well. What else am I supposed to do?”

 

Ganke chuckles at Miles quip, moving to set up his computer. They tend to sit on the bottom bunk for movie marathons. It’s much better than sitting on the floor- he speaks from experience. 

 

The rest of the night is spent laughing at characters dumb decisions and outright shuddering at the terrible acting that accompanies them. Ganke snorts out a mouthful of popcorn they aren’t technically allowed to have when Miles mutters, “This kinda reminds me of my Dad and I don’t know if I should be concerned or not.” Miles has to try and fail to hold back his own laughter as he hands the napkins over. They both end up misty-eyed at some point though, when dogs get involved and inevitably suffer the same fate all movie dogs do- Ganke makes a note of that title and vows never again. 

 

Miles says goodnight with a wider grin than he has for the entirety of the last week, his chest bubbling with happiness.

* * *

The next day, the bubbles carry over, leaving Miles smiling more than usual and tapping his foot to an invisible rhythm. His cheery mood leads him to sketching out a better design for Spider-ham. Everything about the guy- pig- had a sort of silliness to it. Of course, there was a hint of realism, Miles knows that Spider-ham has gone through his own troubles; still, the lightheartedness took spotlight. 

 

Color floods this sketch. Vibrant and colorful and downright stupid with the color combinations. There’s no real theme to the bubbles that surround him, just whatever colors Miles felt should go there went there. The end result is a cacophonous mess that makes the inner artist in him want to screech about color theory, but its perfect for Spider-ham. 

* * *

Miles goes to Mrs. Parker's’ house that Tuesday like normal, although his sudden departure last time still hangs over him. Maybe he shouldn’t come- maybe she doesn’t want to see him. But he’s already on the front doorstep so he might as well. He really hopes Doc isn’t here this time. 

 

He knocks, biting the inside of his cheek. He takes a deep breath; tells himself that he won’t run. 

 

“Come on in.” Mrs. Parker doesn’t look mad or anything. Her eyes are gentle and her warm smile welcoming- maybe even more so than usual. He walks with careful, measured steps, almost afraid to disturb the peace.

 

When they get to the kitchen, Mrs. Parker simply hands him a steaming mug. He tilts his head slightly, staring into the tea. She usually starts brewing it after he gets here. She takes a sip out of her cup, suggesting, “Want to go on the porch? It’s too nice a day to waste.” 

 

“Sure,” he replies dumbly, taking a sip of his tea, recoiling as it singes his tongue. He’s a bit nervous, because this is unusual, but he trusts Mrs. Parker with his life, and if she hasn’t shown any signs of anger by now then she isn’t mad at him in the slightest. 

 

She isn’t wrong about the day either. It’s one of those transition days, where winter decides it isn’t quite yet done with the world, but spring isn’t quite willing to relinquish its hold. The result is the perfect atmosphere to simply sit and look at the sky as sunset nears.

 

Miles doesn’t know what he should say, so he says nothing at all, looking into his half empty glass. 

 

“You know,” Ms. Parker starts off softly. “When Peter was in elementary school- oh he was about 8 or so, went to the little school just down the way- he would nearly always come home with some sort of bruise. Ben and I nearly threw a fit over it once Peter finally told us that the other kids were the ones hurting him. I was ready to march down there myself and give every single teacher a piece of my mind,” she chuckles, gripping her cup tighter. “But Peter comes up to me, puts his hands on my arm real gently, like he had seen Ben do, and he says- he says ‘Aunt May don’t do that please. I had to stand up to ‘em or else others would get hurt.’ No matter what me or Ben did, he wouldn’t be talked down. He was going to do whatever he could and that was that. 

 

“Probably should have taken that as a sign. Just about ten years later he pulls me aside and tells me he’s that crazy spider person swinging around and trying to help people with the powers he got from a radioactive spider. I learned that no matter what, he was always going to help the little guy.” Ms. Parker puts a hand on Miles’ shoulder, and his gaze leaves her face to stare at the fingers that gently grip onto him. “You remind me so much of him.” 

 

“I- I do?” 

 

“You’re just as kind as he was, gentle too. Most kids wouldn’t keep coming back to keep an old lady like me company.” 

 

“That’s not- I mean most people would- I’m not-”

 

Ms. Parker quiets him. “So you’re saying that you only come back because you feel guilty about Peter’s death?”

 

Miles stomach drops, and he really, really doesn’t want to be having this conversation. He stands, scrambling. “That’s not- I- I wouldn’t just- I didn’t mean to- I- I-” 

 

“Miles, it’s okay,” Ms. Parker tells him, a stern lilt to her voice. “You don’t have to answer me if you don’t want, but I’m not here to accuse you either. I just want to let you know that Peter’s death isn’t your fault. It never was, and it never will be.” 

 

“But I was there,” Miles exclaims, stomping his foot down in frustration- not at Ms. Parker, but himself. “I was  _ right _ there. If I had just stayed out of the way- if he hadn’t had stopped to make sure I was alright- he would have been able to stop the collider right then. Instead…” 

 

“Did you bring the building down on him?” 

 

“Huh?”

 

Ms. Parker levels him with a stare. “Did you bring Fisk’s fists down on him?” 

 

“What? No-”

 

Ms. Parker cuts him off. “Exactly. You didn’t kill him. It wasn’t your fault.” 

 

Miles falters, his harsh breaths wracking his frame. He can’t find it in him to come up with an argument, but his guilt is overpowering. He’s guilty because he should be, that’s all there is to it. 

 

“After Ben died, Peter really drew into himself. He would hardly talk to me, and when he would he always looked away, like he was ashamed. He didn’t tell me why until years later. He had been there, when Ben died, and wasn’t able to stop it. He kept blaming himself, turning away from the people who loved him. Thank goodness, he had some close friends who helped him through it in ways I couldn’t.”

 

Miles is silent, eyes wide. Ms. Parker continues on after a brief pause to wipe at her damp eyes. “He tore himself apart over Ben for years. I don’t want you to do the same thing. If anything, Peter wouldn’t want that- he would never want that for you.” 

 

“But…” he trails off, unsure. Ms. Parker stands, setting her tea cup down so she can embrace Miles in a gentle hug. He freezes at the contact, arms stiff at his sides. Ms. Parker is warm though, and he soon finds himself relaxing into the hold, arms coming up to slowly, awkwardly, hug her back. 

 

“You have to let go of these kinds of things. Peter is gone, and no matter how much you blame yourself and think about what you could of done he won’t come back. You did all you could. The more you hold onto the blame the more it’s going to hurt you and the people you care about.” 

 

“I-” Miles sniffles, eyes burning with unshed tears, and he pulls away to rub at them. However, once the first falls, the other follow, unstoppable. “S-sorry.”

 

“You have nothing to be sorry for,” Ms. Parker responds, grabbing his hand and leading him back to the chair. “Take as long as you need.” 

 

Miles feels as if he spends hours sobbing in that chair. It isn’t hours, more a matter of 20 minutes or so, but it means the world. When he’s finally in a state to collect himself, he still can’t find anything to say to Ms. Parker. She seems to understand, simply letting him finish the tea in silence. 

 

“If you can, you could try bringing it up to your parents,” Ms. Parker suggests softly as he goes to walk out the front door. Miles shakes his head. He can’t possibly bring this up to his parents. How could he? Walk in and say, “Hey dad I watched the old Spider-man die when I also had spider powers and I still feel like I’m the reason he died? And I was also the reason that Uncle Aaron died because I wasn’t good enough even then.” Please. Not a chance. 

 

Instead, Miles gives a small smile. “Thanks...Aunt May.” 

 

The words are unnatural to him, clunky and bogged down by his internal conflict. But Ms- Aunt May beams at him, and his reservations are melted away. 

* * *

It's pouring tonight. The thunderstorm had come in with little warning, but as much as Miles would like to go inside, crime doesn’t stop for the weather. He would have to thank Aunt May for the fact that the suit was waterproof- his hoodie and shorts not so much, but they’re safely tucked underneath a windowsill close to school. 

 

He’s watching the police shove the last gang member into a car. Lost in his thoughts, he doesn’t notice Dad’s presence until the deep, familiar voice sounds below from where he is idly sitting on the side of a building. 

 

“How’s the shoulder?” 

 

“Uh- good, it’s good.” Miles swallows, words thick in his throat. Aunt May’s advice rings in the back of his mind. It’s fueled by the sadness Miles can recognize in Dad’s gaze- Uncle Aaron’s birthday is about a week and a half away. 

 

Miles crawls down until he’s eye level with Dad. “I- I’m sorry about Aaron.”

 

Dad starts, as if Miles had just punched him. “You know his name?”

 

“Of course I do.” It’s a real effort to disguise the anguish rolling around inside Miles with that statement, to act like he’s simply mourning over a stranger rather than his uncle. He doesn’t quite succeed. “Why wouldn’t I? It’s my fault he’s dead.”

 

“I thought that too, for a while. But multiple witnesses said Kingpin is the one who shot him.” 

 

“He got shot because he helped me. Because I wasn’t good enough to stop him and he took pity on me.” It isn’t the truth- the truth would have to be dragged out of Miles, fighting and wriggling all the while- but it was close enough. He begins to think otherwise though, with the slack look on Dad’s face. Something in Dad’s face softens, and a hand comes up to wipe at his eyes. 

 

“Kid, I don’t know about you, but that’s probably the best thing I could have heard. My brother wasn’t the best person- me and him, we’d get into all sorts of trouble as kids too stupid to see how they were messing up their lives. He never really grew out of it like I did, so I put distance between us. I assumed that he had gotten on Kingpin’s bad side while doing dirty work but...just, thanks for telling me- wow, look at me talk. Ria should be proud.” Dad chuckles, and much like with Aunt May, Miles is left near speechless. 

 

“But- but-” 

Dad looks incredibly serious as he turns back to Miles, brows drawn firmly together. “Listen, Aaron made his choices. He chose to save you, probably knowing where it would get him. You can’t go around putting all the blame on yourself. I can tell you for a fact that Aaron wouldn’t stand for it- knowing him, he’s probably having a riot knowing that he went out as a hero.” 

 

Tears are trickling, unbidden, squelching against the sides of the mask, and the overwhelming urge to run consumes him. He mumbles out a tear clogged thanks and flees, scaling up the side of the building quick enough that Peter would have been proud.

* * *

In school, Miles can feel the weight of the emotionally groundbreaking conversations clinging to his body, making his steps drag. Ganke asks him if anything happened, but Miles shrugs him off with a mutter of, “Just superhero stuff.” 

 

Although his mind focuses on Dad and Aunt May and Mr. Parker and Uncle Aaron, he remembers a particular moment with startling clarity. 

 

Peter, shoulders hunched, with a weary voice, saying, “I  _ am _ tired.”

 

It hadn’t really clicked with Miles then, but now? Now Miles gets it- well, gets some of it. He can’t possibly know exactly what Peter went through, but he understands. 

 

So, his hands move unbidden on a sheet of blank copy paper he doesn’t remember pulling out. Peter’s slouched, bent over not with laziness but from the burden of responsibilities and blame and heartache pressing down on him. Still, his head is held high, eyes locked forward in determination. There’s darkness behind him, but light gathers at his feet, illuminating the path ahead. There’s a trail of bright footsteps in his wake, matching the glow of the hopeful smile on his face. The soft colors that take up a majority of his body are muddied a bit with flashes of darker color. A thick wall of darker colors outlines a heart. 

 

Miles gives a genuine smile at the finished product. 

* * *

Uncle Aaron’s grave is a lot less fancy and hallowed than Mr. Parker’s is. Not many people knew him, it was really only his family that showed up to the funeral. All of his things had been left for them. He had prepared for his death early on, as Miles soon discovered. Everything, down to the funeral costs, had been taken care of already. It was tucked neatly into a little drawer in his Uncle’s room, wrapped up with a rubber band and marked with a sticky note that said ‘In Case of Death.”

 

Miles will sneak back sometimes, to Uncle Aaron’s flat. There’s someone else living in it now, so he can’t slip in, but still, its comforting sometimes to stand on the wall outside, remembering the thousands of times he had climbed the fire escape to knock on the window. Without fail, Uncle Aaron would smile and let him in. 

 

Miles knows that Uncle Aaron deserved better. Yeah, he worked for Kingpin. He probably killed a lot of people- he had tried to kill Miles. But when it came down to it, Uncle Aaron didn’t betray him- Uncle Aaron loved them, even with his and Dad’s broken relationship. 

 

He didn’t deserve to have Miles’ incompetence kill him. 

 

Miles is holding a bouquet of roses. A man he saved the other day had left them out on his windowsill, a thank you note attached. Their vibrant pink had caught his eye, leading him here. 

 

He doesn’t ever keep the offerings given to him by thankful rescuees. He has no room for them, and can’t afford to draw suspicion to himself when the staff conduct room checks. Instead he brings them here. The bouquet rests against the small tombstone, a harsh contrast. 

 

Miles sits, cross-legged. He fiddles with his thumbs, unsure of what he wants to say. 

 

“Hey Uncle Aaron. Things have been going pretty okay I guess. Being Spider-man is good- better now that I actually know what to do. After the fifth or so robbery and/or assault it starts to become kinda routine. The other day I even managed to venom shock all they guys on command.” Miles holds up his hands, watching the electricity dance across his finger tips. “My control is getting better and better. So is my invisibility. I can stay out of sight for almost 20 minutes now.” 

 

A sigh escapes his lips, and his next words are hushed, muffled by hiccupy noises that accompany them. “I miss you- I miss you so much and I’m so sorry. If I had been better- if I could have just learned how to be Spider-man faster instead of being too scared to do what I needed to do you would still be here. Dad really misses you. He tries not to let me know but I can see it whenever I accidentally bring you up. 

 

“Sometimes… sometimes I think about what you would say to me if you were still here. I’d like to think you’d be a bit proud. But I just- would you forgive me?” Miles looks at his hand, opening and closing his fingers. “I...I think I’m ready to start forgiving myself. I don’t really know how to do that, but I want to try. For both you and for Mr. Parker.” 

 

There isn’t an answer and there never will be one. But with a gentle rustle of the wind Miles can imagine Uncle Aaron’s gentle smile and his warm hands grasping Miles’. 

 

It’s enough. 

* * *

Miles lands in Aunt May’s backyard grinning, the adrenaline from his victory over Rhino literally buzzing through his system. Literally in fact, because his hands are still tingling from the dozens of venom shocks he had delivered. He wouldn’t normally come over now, but he’s just so happy that he managed to win he couldn’t help himself. 

 

When he looks up though, he meets the eyes of one faintly startled Doc Oc. Luckily, he didn’t take his mask off. 

 

“Hello, spider child,” Doc Oc sniffs, something threatening flashing in her eyes. She draws back, tentacles demurely coiling around her waist, the glow in her eyes receding. “That take down was sloppy, you have too many weaknesses.”

 

Miles falters, but he resolves himself not to be disheartened by the villain he had easily beaten once before. “Sure,” he mutters as he walks by her. The thought of her attacking him while he has his back to her crosses his mind, but by now its too late to turn around and not look like an idiot so he supposes he’ll have to leave it up to Aunt May’s presence and his spider sense. 

 

Nothing happens, and he walks through the back door feeling a bit more secure. He doesn’t trust Doc Oc to any real extent, but at least he’s sure she won’t attack him here. 

 

Despite the fact that Aunt May is facing away from him when he spots her in the kitchen, he waves to her before saying, “Hey Aunt May.”

 

“Oh- M- you scared me.” Her hand comes up to loosely clutch at her heart. “You nearly scared this old woman half to death.” 

 

“Sorry,” Miles says quickly. 

 

“It’s okay dear, I’m just an easy scarer is all.” Aunt May continues on unloading what looks like tarts of some sort from the oven. “I caught the last bit of your fight. That was quite the win.” 

 

“Thank you.” A grin takes over his face, slight guilt forgotten. “I can’t believe it- I thought I was gonna lose for sure but wham- I got him right in the face. Did you see how hard he fell? He was passed out.” 

 

“My favorite part was where you made him trip over his own feet,” Aunt May comments with a chuckle. 

 

“I can’t believe I did that.” Quieter, he repeats. “I can’t believe I did that.” 

 

Aunt May smiles, patting his head. “Want to join me and Liv for tea?” 

 

“Sure.” 

* * *

“Hola mami.” Miles mutters, undergoing the ritual of having his cheeks smothered by kisses the moment he arrives back home with less of his usual disgust. Probably cause of his shifting mental state- but he came home to have a nice weekend with his family, not to psychoanalyze himself more. 

 

“How was school?” She asks, patting down from his hair to his cheek in a way that speaks intrinsically of home and safety to Miles. 

 

He opens the door, speaking as they walk through, his suitcase in tow. “It was good.” 

 

“Good. Ah- siento que nunca te veo mas,” She grumbles, pulling him into another hug that he readily returns. 

 

“¿Quieres hacer algo entonces?” Miles offers, and Mami’s eyes go wide. She blinks, as if she can’t believe her ears. 

 

“What kind of question is that mijo? Por supuesto que sí. Permíteme llamaro Jeff y dile que vuelva a casa temprano.” Mami flies off to the phone, leaving him to pull his suitcase up the stairs by himself. Super strength from a radioactive spider bite helps out with that a bit. 

 

By the time he’s unpacked (read: thrown his clothes into a pile in his closet and dumped his textbooks on the floor by his desk) Mami is in the kitchen, hands deftly shifting around spices and food in a way she normally didn’t do unless they had guests coming over. 

 

“What’s up?” Miles asks, jumping to sit on the empty patch of countertop. 

 

“¡Te bajas de allí!” Mamí exclaims, swatting him lightly with the fork in her hands. “I’m cooking for tonight. I was going to make empanadas, but I figured fricasé would be better. Pero, no se si…” she trails off, muttering to herself about onions and meat and other cooking things that didn’t particularly interest him. The idea of homemade fricasé though. That makes his mouth water. 

 

“Want me to help?” Miles offers, almost expecting to be shooed away- Mamí tends to be bossy in the kitchen. 

 

Instead of a direct answer, Mamí just waves a hand. “Get your butt in here already.”

 

Cooking dinner is a mess of traded quips and many, many smacks with a spatula on Mamí’s part. What does it matter if he tries a bowl of the soup before it’s done? It’s just one bowl. Well tell that to his stinging hand. 

 

Still, he laughs and dodges and has the time of his life simply enjoying the time with Mamí. It’s been too long since he’s appreciated the quiet moments like this enough to revel in them and he soaks up every minute of it with childish glee. 

* * *

When he goes back to school, he has a bounce in his step that he’s been lacking for a while now. Ganke shows him a little robot, and Miles loses his breath from laughter when Ganke reveals the spider based design. 

 

“Figured you would like it,” Ganke declares, promptly shoving the robot into Miles’ hands with the mumble of, “I made it for you anyways.” 

 

The robot sits on the desk, fondly nicknamed Penni. Miles thinks back to it, and the small, bubbly but fierce girl it inevitably reminds him of. 

* * *

Her sketch is arguably the hardest, only because it is the most intricate. Penni moves quick, quicker than anyone else- the type to go through three bags of chips while re-wiring a mainframe. It wouldn’t be a Penni based drawing it it didn’t have a blur of motion. 

 

And it does. Penni is tiny, almost, save for the looming figure of her robot behind her. Glowing lines of wiring line it from top to bottom, accompanied by narrowed eyes. Penni’s eyes are a near replica of the robot’s expression, save for the fact they are clearly human in origin. Sparks fly out from her eyes, hands, feet, and hair. She has wires going through her too, mostly because Miles’ would have sworn that she was attached to the robot if she hadn’t come out of it- she was basically part robot. There’s a spider on her shoulder, a radiating green and purple. 

 

Penni’s figure is a bright magenta, her robot a darker red. Both sets of wires are a rainbow of colors. It kinda hurts his head to see the clash of colors, like it had with the sketch of Spider-ham. However, there is an order to Penni that Spider-ham lacks. There is a general scheme to the bubbles of color that decorate the background, a host of warmer colors in generally muted hues. Brighter colors spark from within in little wiry lines that create an illusion of techno-based fireworks. 

 

Miles’ sets his marker down with a subtle sigh, satisfaction dripping through his veins at the sight of the finished sketch. He goes to put it back in his bag quietly, and its only then that he realizes something incredible- he has sketches of all the Spider-people. Sketches that he  _ likes _ .

* * *

The only thing that stops his jaw from dropping is the sharp voice of his geometry teacher calling his attention back to the front.

Miles has an urge to paint like he hasn’t had since that day with Dad. It consumes his mind, leaving him flighty and snappish as it fights with the part of him that’s still hesitant to lift a can again. And that’s not even mentioning the struggle of putting all these sketches together into one coherent painting. 

 

His plan was to simply think it over on the weekend, but he must be really on edge, because when Dad surprises him by picking him up directly from school, it doesn’t take him long to start questioning. 

 

“You okay?” Dad asks hesitantly, fingers dancing on the steering wheel. 

 

“Yeah…” Miles trails off, wondering if there was a way to word his problems as to not cause any reasonable suspicion. Dad keeps a tight lip, fingers still dancing as his eyes flash between the road and Miles. “Hey, dad?”

 

“What?”

 

“Do you think the new Spider-man is like the old one?” This is a barbed wire, ready to lash back and cut him for his stupidity, but if anyone knows about Spider-man and how to compare them, it’s Dad. 

 

“Wha- no, absolutely not. First of all, don’t tell anyone this but I know for almost certain that the new Spider-man is a kid, maybe even younger than you are.” 

 

Miles glowers at the insinuation, but thankfully Dad doesn’t notice, too caught up in his words.

 

“I mean for god’s sake the kid is half my height- but I guess on principle they are. They do the same thing. Still go out there and acting like they can do the police’s job better than them. Throwing themselves into danger for the sake of the public.” The last part is muttered under Dad’s breath, but Miles smiles anyways, armed the the knowledge that Dad’s bitterness now stems from concern rather than disdain. 

 

On principle, they are the same. Every Spider-man takes up the mask to protect others. Different people, different worlds, same goal. “Thanks,” Miles mutters offhandedly, missing the befuddled glances he gets the rest of the way home. 

 

* * *

Anyone could wear the mask- that’s what he told himself. Even if the images clashed, even if they looked like there was nothing connecting them, they were all Spider-man. 

 

Even him- no,  _ especially _ him.

 

Miles chooses to put it in the half collapsed pile of rubble that used to hold an interdimensional collider. It’s only fitting. It takes him a bit, sorting through the remaining rubble the city never bothered to finish cleaning- the land wasn’t good place to build on, not with its reputation as belonging to a crime lord- before he’s satisfied with the wall space he cleared. It stretches at about twice his height, with sides about twice that length. 

 

The cans of paint clatter as he sets them down. He bought every color he could get his hands on- within reason, of course. Midnight blue doesn’t look any different from royal blue and only an idiot would think otherwise. Next he removes his sketchbook from the small bag slung over his shoulder. One by one, he lays out his sketches, lining them up. He spends half an hour simply rearranging them on the floor, shifting people around as he envisions how each separate person’s theme will blend with the ones next to them. Once laid out, each sheet of paper touches the ones next to it, save for two, because he had to fit a space for himself. 

 

The next twenty minutes are wasted by simply looking at the wall, then his paints, and wondering where he would even begin. It’s a fact that the first line is always the hardest, as Uncle Aaron had always reminded him when he was particularly worried about how a piece would turn out once thrown up. Miles takes a deep breath, and unscrews a black can. Just one line after the other. Keep the hand steady and the mind focused. 

 

Earbuds in, the world begins to fade, leaving only Miles, his paint, and the masterpiece in his mind, itching to be released. 

  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  



End file.
